Iphigenia On the Altar
by Citiesofcolor
Summary: AU. Laura Roslin is found during the mutiny. Written for the What-If Inspiration Day Challenge on Livejournal.


There's a gun in his hand.

The weight of it is balanced, the grip snug and almost perfectly fit for his hand. It feels familiar; he, after all, is used to handling guns even though he probably shouldn't. It's something he can thank his father for, his knowledge of guns and how they work. It's probably saved his life more than a few times. But he's never felt this before, this hesitation, and he doesn't like it. It makes him feel weak.

"Mr. Zarek, sir? Lieutenant Gaeta wants to know if you've taken care of Roslin yet."

It's the voice of the marine in the control room crackling over the launch tube comm. The breath of the blindfolded woman on her knees in front of him hitches in her chest. He's mildly surprised at this show of emotion; she'd gone eerily calm after the trial and she hasn't spoken since his marines had taken her and Adama from the brig over an hour ago.

"Tell Lieutenant Gaeta that he will be informed as soon as it's done," he answers. Roslin's head falls almost imperceptibly lower, like just a little more fight is drawn out of her. In the part of his mind that isn't completely detached he's again surprised to see the small concession from her. He isn't surprised that it makes him uneasy; after all, he'd never expected murdering her to be _simple_. From what he'd seen, Laura Roslin had always been cool in the face of death before, the only sign of fear when facing down a squad of cylon bulletheads a slight softening of her eyes.

"Aye, sir," the marine says, and the comm crackles out again.

He raises the gun again, this time closer to Roslin's head, and he tries to find what is keeping him from doing what he has to and putting her down. It has to be done. He's never had a problem with doing what had to be done before. It was Gaeta who had insisted on Adama's sham trial; a naïve, childish thing from a man who is too idealistic by half. Zarek, however, knows that there is no such thing as a bloodless coup. Murder is murder and to move up someone else has to move down. Besides, he also knows that he can't let Gaeta turn this execution into a circus too. Roslin's death needs to be kept quiet as long as possible.

The truth was that, outside of the military, Adama was not popular. From New Caprica to the cylons, most of the Fleet was angry. Most would be shocked but understanding, some probably even pleased at his death. Roslin, on the other hand, was different. She could split the Fleet. From her prophecies to her cancer and her being a resistance leader on New Caprica, she commanded respect and even the love of her people. If it was found out she'd been shot like a traitor and airlocked like a cylon, many would riot and any hope of legitimacy would be gone. For this to work she had to die quietly, and the only person he trusted enough to take care of it without it being leaked to the press was himself.

He knew this, had fought for this kind of opportunity his whole career, and he had thought that her death would be a particularly unpleasant but ultimately necessary step in healing the Fleet.

He was wrong. It was so much more than that, and he never even thought that he'd _liked_ the woman.

_Red hair like a banner in his peripheral vision, vibrant against the drab grays of the Detention Center catches his gaze._

It's hard for him to reconcile this person in front of him with the woman he'd hated so back during Baltar's disastrous election. She's shaking in front of him, whether from anger or fear he doesn't know, and he thinks that she would fall over with a single breath, so weak she looks. She is quiet but for the rattling of her breath in her chest, the hands bound behind her back clasped together—to keep them from shaking too, he thinks. She has not begged, and he doesn't know if he wants her to.

He should want her to. He should want to kill her. She'd pushed him out, taken his rightful power as Vice-President and systematically undermined him until he was little more than a glorified gavel-banger at Quorum meetings. After all, he'd stepped down from his rightly won presidency _for her_. If it wasn't for him, she'd be just another citizen, probably frakking Adama for a place to sleep and regular meals. Although it seemed, based on where they'd found her, that she already was. Sitting like the queen of the gods at the frakking Admiral's desk, her things mingling with Adama's in his quarters.

_He's being pushed back to his cell, prodded by the Five behind him. He'd come down with some kind of respiratory infection over the last few days, and they'd finally seen fit to let a doctor check him. He was so miserable that even the Four was welcome. He'd been given a mystery injection and been sent on his way. He's bleary, weak, barely catching his breath because he's drowning in his own lungs, but he still locks on to it. He only knows one person with red hair like that._

And yet, her glasses are cool in his clenched fist and he still can't find the strength to pull the trigger. She takes in another shuddering breath, and he notices that her hair doesn't look quite right.

_He pretends to stumble and catch himself on the door of her cell, faking a coughing fit. They only give him a moment to stop before grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back down the hall, but it had been all he needed to look through the observation window._

Before he can stop himself, he's reached out to touch, and she reacts like she'd been burned, a small sound of outrage bubbling in her throat.

A wig.

She can't be that sick yet, can she? He'd thought that it was a side-effect of the diloxin, the thinning hair, and that's why she'd dyed it dark.

"Uh, Mr. Zarek sir?"

It's the marine in the control room again sounding over the comm, and Zarek wonders how long he's been standing there trying to pull the trigger.

"Yes?" He tries to hide the tremor in his hand from the force of the memory by shifting his hold on the gun. He looks down at her again, at the clenched teeth, the acquiescent bowed head, the clasped hands behind her back. He wonders what she's thinking.

"Lieutenant Gaeta has given word that Adama has been executed."

_Her hair had been furled out around her head, her face towards the opposite wall. She'd been naked to her waist, the washed-out uniform bunched down around her hips. Her head was resting on her outstretched arm. But it wasn't this that stuck in his mind as he numbly stumbled down the hallway and tried not to retch._

There's a strangled gasp from Laura and he whips his head back to her kneeling form in time to see her double over, head almost flush with the floor of the launch tube.

"Oh Gods no…" The anguished whisper breaks from her lips. "Bill..."

Frak, she really had loved him. And now he was dead. And then he realizes that he can't do it like _this_.

But, there's still an execution to be handled, and if he doesn't do it someone else will. She'd never support him, and his administration would never get any semblance of legitimacy with the deposed ex-president inciting mutiny. But he doesn't want her to die by the hand of a stranger, someone who will kill her with glee and then brag about it to his bunk mates. Laura Roslin deserved better than that after being betrayed by the man who had once tried to save her life.

_No, the image burned into his mind was Laura Roslin's white back whipped raw and striped with blood._

His hand is still trembling, and he finds that the pragmatism he'd armed himself with has deserted him.

He cocks the gun, sees the shudder wrack through her whole body. For a moment he thinks she's flinched, but then he hears the gasping breath and realizes that she's crying.

_Lords of Kobol, give me strength to show this woman mercy._

But he still hesitates, and he can feel the eyes of the marine in the control room on him.

"Please, Tom."

It's come from her, muffled a little from her forehead resting on the flooring. She's choked out a thin sound halfway between a whisper and a whimper. And his chest tightens a little. It's disconcerting to him; she looks like she's bowing down.

She's begging.

This should be a victory. It's not. Not to him. Not anymore.

"Please, Tom, don't make me wait anymore."

Her voice is stronger this time, but clearly supplicating. She thinks he's done this for pleasure, making her wait as he savours the weight of her life in his hands. He reaches out to lift her head off the floor, and he sees the bottom edge of the blindfold stained with her tears.

He wants to say something, but finds he doesn't have the words, so he steels his back and raises the gun again.

"Please, Tom. Please, just kill me."

There's a gun in his hand.

The weight of it is balanced, the grip is slick with his own sweat, and slippery. It feels foreign; he, after all, is used to handling guns but he shouldn't. It's something he can curse his father for, his knowledge of guns and the destruction they cause. It's probably saved his life more than a few times, only to kill him now. But he's never felt this before, this hesitation, and he finds that he embraces it.

It makes him feel human.

A single gunshot breaks the silence.


End file.
